He removed the bowls, his empty, hers hardly touched, and returned moments later with coffee, hers made exactly as she liked it: black, with a touch of cream floating across the top, and no sugar. His black, steaming, with too much sugar.
Just as he sat down opposite her, determined this was the moment to tell her the truth, she asked for some sugar. Scott jumped up, somewhat surprised, returned to the kitchen, tipped some sugar into a bowl, grabbed a teaspoon and came back to see her snapping closed her tiny evening bag.
After he had sat down and placed the sugar on the table he smiled at her. He had never seen such sadness in those eyes before. He poured them both a brandy, whirled his around the balloon, took a sip of his coffee and then faced her. She had not touched her coffee or brandy, and the sugar she had asked for remained in the center of the table, its little mound undented.
“Hannah,” Scott began softly, “I have something important to tell you, and I wish I had told you a long time ago.” He looked up, to find her on the verge of tears. He would have asked her why, but feared that if he allowed her to change the subject he might never tell her the truth.
“My name is not Simon Rosenthal,” he said quietly. Hannah looked surprised, but not in the way he had expected—more anxious than curious. He took another sip of coffee and then continued. “I have lied to you from the day we met, and the more deeply I fell in love with you, the more I lied.”
She didn’t speak, for which he was grateful, because on this occasion, like his lectures, he needed to proceed without interruption. His throat began to feel a little dry, so he sipped his coffee again.
“My name is Scott Bradley. I am an American, but not from Chicago as I told you when we first met. I’m from Denver.” A puzzled look came into Hannah’s eyes, but she still didn’t interrupt him. Scott plowed on.
“I am not Mossad’s agent in Paris writing a travel book. Far from it, though I confess the truth is much stranger than the fiction.” He held her hand and this time she didn’t try to remove it. “Please, let me explain, and then perhaps you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” His throat suddenly felt drier. He finished his coffee and quickly poured himself another cup, taking an extra teaspoonful of sugar. She still hadn’t touched hers. “I was born in Denver, where I went to school. My father was a local lawyer who ended up in jail for fraud. I was so ashamed that when my mother died, I took a post at Beirut University because I could no longer face anyone I knew.” Hannah looked up and her eyes began to show sympathy. It gave Scott the confidence to continue.
“I do not work for Mossad in any capacity, nor have I ever done so.” Her lips formed a straight line. “My real job is nowhere near as romantic as that. After Beirut I returned to America to become a university professor.” She looked mystified, and then her expression suddenly changed to one of anxiety.
“Oh, yes,” he said, his words beginning to sound slightly slurred, “this time I’m telling the truth. I teach constitutional law at Yale. Let’s face it, no one would make up a story like that,” he added, trying to laugh.
He drank more coffee. It tasted less bitter than the first cup.
“But I am also what they call in the trade a part-time spy, and as it’s turned out, not a very good one. Despite many years of training and lecturing other people on how it should be done.” He paused. “But that was only in the classroom.”
She looked more anxious.
“You need have no fears,” he said, trying to reassure her. “I work for the good side, though I suppose even that depends on where you’re looking from. I’m currently a temporary field officer with the CIA.”
“The CIA?” she stammered in disbelief. “But they told me—”
“What did they tell you?” he asked quickly.
“Nothing,” she said, and lowered her head again.
Had she already known about his background, or perhaps guessed his original story didn’t add up? He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was tell the woman he loved everything about himself. No more lies. No more deceit. No more secrets. “Well, as I’m confessing, I mustn’t exaggerate,” he continued. “I go to Virginia twelve times a year to discuss with agents the problems they’ve faced while working in the field. I was full of bright ideas to assist them in the peace and comfort of Langley, but I’ll treat them with more respect now that I’ve experienced some of the problems they come up against, especially having made such a mess of things myself.”
“It can’t be true,” she said suddenly. “Tell me you’re making it up, Simon.”
“I’m afraid not, Hannah. This time it’s all true,” he said. “You must believe me. I only ended up in Paris after years of demanding to be tested in the field, because, with all my theoretical knowledge, I assumed I’d be a whiz if they just gave me the chance to prove myself. Scott Bradley, professor of constitutional law. Infallible in the eyes of his adoring students at Yale and the senior CIA operatives at Langley. There’ll be no standing ovation after this performance, of that we can both be sure.”
Hannah stood and stared down at him. “Tell me it’s not true, Simon,” she said. “It mustn’t be true. Why did you choose me? Why me?”
He stood and took her in his arms. “I didn’t choose you, I fell in love with you. They chose me. My people, my people needed to find out why Mossad had put you, put you in the Jordanian Embassy attached to the Iraqi Interest Section.” He was finding it difficult to remain coherent, and couldn’t understand why he felt so sleepy.
“But why you?” she asked, clinging to him for the first time that evening. “Why not a regular CIA agent?”
“Because, because they wanted to put someone in, someone who wouldn’t be recognized by any of the professionals.”
“Oh, my God, who am I meant to believe?” she said, breaking away. She stared helplessly at him.
“You can believe me, because I’ll prove…prove all I’ve said is true.” Scott began to move away from the table. He felt unsteady as he walked slowly over to the sideboard, bent down to pull open the bottom drawer and after some rummaging around removed a small leather case with the initials “S.B.” printed in gold on the top right-hand corner. He smiled a triumphant smile and turned back. He attempted to steady himself by resting one hand on the sideboard. He looked towards the blurred figure of the woman he loved, but could no longer see the desperate look on her face. He tried to remember how much he had already told her and how much she still needed to know.
“Oh, my darling, what have I done?” she said, her eyes now pleading.
“Nothing, it’s all been my fault,” said Scott. “But we’ll have the rest of our lives to laugh about it. That, by the way, was a proposal. Feeble, I agree, but I couldn’t love you any more than I do. You must surely realize that,” he added as he tried to take a pace towards her. She stood staring at him helplessly as he lurched forward before attempting to take a second step. Then he tried again, but this time he stumbled and collapsed across the table, finally landing with a thud on the floor at her feet.
“I can’t blame you if you don’t feel the same way as…” were his final words, as the leather case burst open, disgorging its contents all around a body that was suddenly still.
Hannah fell on her knees and took his head in her hands. She began to sob uncontrollably. “I love you, of course I love you, Simon. But why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me the truth?”